The Cardinal

The cardinal in a snow-clad tree prances through the branches. With glossy eyes, all masked in black, he darts and dashes from side to side casting furtive glances. Perching himself on the slightest limb, he bobs up and down with the lightest wind, yet still he dances, with crest and chest ablaze in red, orange beak pointed straight ahead, and wings still wrapped in winter feathers, waiting to brighten with warmer weather . He shakes his head back and forth, looks south and east, testing his course, then with an ounce of force he lifts his wings to fly away, the lone splash of color in a sky so grey Leave a comment Share Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935

Forgotten Things

I try to imagine how it might feel being a broken wine glass trying to remember whether it held a red or a white when it was whole or to be a puff of smoke that disappears in seconds, existing for only a few moments, wondering whose lips it had passed through or to be a dream that never ends, to go places without moving, voyaging in my body, feeling just how filled with emptiness one can really be I try to imagine Future's jealousy of a Present that never ends, of a hope to touch, just once, the waters of the sea, to think imaginatively about the sun or moon or stars. I feel bad for forgotten things. Remembering hurts more.

A Wounding

Each life, as it begins, wounds another in some mysterious way: a leaf may be torn from its tree a chick may fall from its nest a careless foot may crush a rose We cannot fathom its meaning when it occurs, only that we know it happens, and while the wound may heal, resentment will be the sand it carries to the grave.

One Day

Water falling on dirt: sound and texture. Words fail to describe how the sky longs for the sun, how the birds are voiceless. My Granddad used to say, “There is nothing that cannot be said,” but even that is not said anymore, dead these 24 years and the better off for it. What comes next must be a childhood memory of Spring when the nights were thick and dark, lit dimly only by stars, and the town was smaller, laboring beneath the deep hoarseness of a northeast wind with a taste of salt and metal howling down from Canada and skipping like a stone across the Great Lakes, only to push against this house and rattle my bedroom windows. Somewhere in the distance there is a train, rather, there are trains and there are great tankers on the lake. A chief element of memories is tenacity. Memories are as tenacious as a dog digging at an old bone and when they drop themselves at your feet, you blink your eyes and shake your head and then bring them to focus as if you were brushing dust off shards of ancient pottery that has long forgotten what it looked like when it was whole. Sometimes memories are locked doors without keys, unopened books in languages we cannot read, bleached survivors of a perennial storm of forgetfulness, faces perpetually rebuilt from last night’s dreams, bodies fashioned from baling wire and Styrofoam, their angles and attitudes curated, set down in precise and seemly environments like the ziggurats of Ninevah or office towers in New York Once upon a time, I had a vision where I harnessed the memory of your face to a team of wild horses, then drove them across a dark field of forgotten dreams strewn with artifacts of a desperate archeology beneath a full moon glistening like an eye full of tears. I awoke in my bedroom, on the floor naked and alone, shivering, a striped horse blanket draped across my shoulders, damp with sweat and tears. Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Paul’s Substack is free today

I Met a Man Upon the Road

I met a man upon the road “Kill the Father,” is what he said. I could not do it, even then, because he was already dead. I met a man on the road “Take the Mother to your bed.” I could not do it, even then because she was already dead. I met a man on the road “Believe in me,” is what he said I could not do it, even then because he was already dead.

Invitation haiku x 2

You will not find me by keeping the world at bay, always saying No. Show me who you are. if you want love to find you invite me inside.

CHANCE ENCOUNTER (Rerun) A bit of prose, originally published October 11, 2023 PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 28

Rebecca Elstree loved staying at the Jamaica Inn, a habit she had cultivated when she was still young and innocent. She had been in love once, long ago, with a lady who had held her heart spellbound but it ended much like a story of the London fog: the clock strikes midnight, a cold, wet mist rolls in, a lady and a somewhat younger girl locked in an ardent embrace, the lady vanishes, and the girl, Rebecca, crushed and left alone, must find the strength to move on with her life. That had been so many years ago and she no longer cared to think about it. The Jamaica Inn provided a comfort and a solace after the breakup with the lady who had stolen her heart. Her favorite room was Number 13. She loved peeking out through the torn curtain of her rear window, through which she could see the statue of Juno and the Paycock and watch the birds, especially the mountain eagle, spiraling north by northwest above the pleasure garden that ran out to the edge of Bodmin Moor. She rarely ventured out onto the moor itself. She feared she might fall prey to a creeper or a psycho—who is to say? The papers and tabloids had been consumed with printing such dreadful stories of late. She could not bring herself to read about them without feeling like someone or something was watching her. Additionally, just the simple act of reading about such awful business always threatened to bring on a dizzying sense of vertigo and she would have to lay down her paper to prevent herself from falling into the dark abyss of her imagination, a country she neither desired nor was prepared to visit. No, Rebecca would rather limit herself to the confines of her room or the rather wider context of the inn itself than tempt fate. In fact, there were widespread reports from the other guests staying at the inn that Rebecca was often heard to remark that she preferred the door marked No Entrance to the one that read No Exit. Rebecca moved from her window seat to the door, cracked it open, and peeked down the hallway. There were three rooms between hers and number seventeen: two along the corridor opposite and one on her side. She began to count the squares running down the middle of the carpet that stretched the length of the hallway. She calculated their number at 39. “If I wanted to,” she thought to herself, “I could walk the thirty-nine steps it takes to reach number seventeen, tap on the door, and visit the lodger staying within, the guest whose name is Mary—Mary something… I cannot remember the last name. Why can’t I remember? What did she say when we spoke on the train—Daniels? Danvers? Carmichael? Carstairs? Oh, fuss and bother, WHAT was it?” Rebecca and Mary had met as strangers on a train while traveling through Cornwall. There were only a very few passengers aboard the train and not very much conversation was in evidence. Although she could not be certain, it seemed likely that the woman seated across from her was travelling to the same destination as she and if they were both staying at Jamaica Inn, they were bound to meet there anyway, so why not break the ice now, spend a bit of time passing pleasantries with this fellow traveler, and become better acquainted? “If you’ll pardon my asking,” Rebecca began, “will you be stopping at the Jamaica Inn or travelling on elsewhere? I only ask because I’m stopping there myself and it would be nice to see a friendly face among all the strangers.” “How kind of you to ask.” the woman replied. “I’m on holiday for another week or so and I thought a trip to Cornwall would be fun and, yes, I’ll be staying at the inn. They’re keeping room seventeen for me, I think.” “How lovely. I’ll be in room 13. It’s just down the hall from you. By way of introduction, my name is Rebecca Elstree.” “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Elstree. My name is Mary—” just then the carriage lurched forward violently, sending luggage sliding down the aisle and Mary’s last name into oblivion. Both Rebecca and Mary took a moment to compose themselves, then went on with their conversation, which continued until they reached the Jamaica Inn. Thus, although Rebecca could not remember Mary’s last name, she did manage to glean a good deal of pertinent information about her. She was Austrian by birth, rich and strange, a woman of easy virtue who was not about to spend her life playing the farmer’s wife. She had spent much of her time in the capital plying her trade in the skin game but latterly her life had begun to run downhill. After a bit too much champagne and an elastic affair with Harry, the Manxman, she had moved herself as far away from the capitol as she could, at least several waltzes from Vienna. Mary was, astrologically speaking, an air sign, with a quick and nimble mind, and the trouble with Harry was that he was a zodiacal misfit born under Capricorn. There were days when he played at being a secret agent, and others where he told her he worked for the papers as a foreign correspondent from Cairo. Even so, Mary was quite taken with Harry and poured out all her secrets to the man until she heard a mutual friend confide in him and leave, saying “Always tell your wife.” She decided without delay that Harry was the wrong man in her life. He was the man who knew too much—about her—and all the secrets she had revealed about her life in the skin game would make her a ripe target for extortion or blackmail. She dumped him unceremoniously. She knew, given enough rope, he would eventually hang himself. Rebecca was interested in this Mary who sounded bold and daring. She felt nostalgic for the past, for a love she had lost in the London fog. She visited the innkeepers, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, to inquire about Mary’s last name and to obtain any other information that might prove to be useful. However, she found Mr. & Mrs. Smith caught up in a frenzy over their daughter, Marnie, who was momentarily absent from the inn, having been pinched by the coppers at a local shop over a slight mistake regarding the presence in her handbag of a large blue topaz for which she hadn’t paid. The innkeepers were aghast with fear, quite like actors with stage fright, as if Marnie, their very own daughter, had committed murder rather than copped the ring from a display case. Rebecca thought of calling her friends two towns over to make her inquiry about Mary but the operator making the connection thought the call was an emergency of some kind and routed it to the local police constabulary. The clerk answering the call kept pressing Rebecca as to the nature of the emergency—was it a noise complaint, domestic abuse, an intruder? “No,” Rebecca told the woman speaking at the other end of the line, “I am not trying to catch a thief. This is Rebecca Elstree calling for information.” The woman hung up on her after saying she should dial m for murder, if that is what she wanted. The call was not quite the lifeboat she thought it would be. Indeed, she had a sinking suspicion, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Mary might be in danger, that Harry was a saboteur, or someone sent to muck up Mary’s life, to unearth old bones or secrets long hidden in the family plot. For some reason beyond rational explanation, she began to think of Harry as the sort of sly man who might have figured in the Paradine case, legal goings-on that had recently made the papers. Just then, a soft rain began to fall, and she stopped looking down the long stretch of hallway outside her doorway. She lay down on the chaise, closed her eyes for a moment, and thought to herself, right before she fell asleep, “I hope I don’t dream of Manderley again.” Leave a comment Thank you for reading Paul’s Substack. This post is public so feel free to share it. Paul’s Substack is free today. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935

Tree Haiku

Trees flaming against an indifferent grey mist candles in daylight

In Shadows

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/ofDKANIj62M In Shadows PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 27 READ IN APP Darkness shone in Brightness And Brightness did not know. Winter slept in Summer And Summer hid the snow. The Moon is always with us The women and the blood. In shadows we bear witness From shadows we are judged

Afterwards

When they were done, the memory of lovemaking moved quickly into a past just recently occupied by the memories of breakfast, a quick shower, and far too many questions about a future that was already residing with the dirty dishes and the bath towel. I don’t want to quarrel, one says, throwing a glance at the other, carelessly, like a discarded cigarette, mindless of the fire it might start, the damage it could cost. And I don’t want to think about it replies the other. You always do this. Do what? This. This? What’s this? You won’t commit to anything. I’ll commit to lunch. You’re infuriating. Why? Won’t you be hungry by then? You’re making me mad. Well, I don’t want to quarrel. And I don’t want to make up. You can always leave. I don’t want to leave. Well, then I’ll leave. No, I’ll leave, I’ll go for a walk. It’s raining. I hadn’t noticed. There’s an umbrella in the hallway Where are my shoes? There. Right. Well, I’m going then. Go. I may not come back. You’ll come back. Don’t count on it OK. OK.

Each of Us A Pyramid A bit of prose for a Winter day. PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 25

An interview with Jordan Schachtel, author of The Dossier YURI BEZMENOV AND JORDAN SCHACHTEL JAN 25 History has shown that human beings leave behind an amazing array of artifacts, material remains of objects they created, modified, or used. Thus, every person can be considered as an archeological site to be excavated, dug into, like the earth that hides a clay sculpture or animal bones or the memory of fire. This piece of writing might be an example of what I mean. As a child, I knew as children do, the dark of nights, the deepest dread, ghosts haunting shadows bathing my room, the monsters under my bed. When I was five years old, I knew fear and I was afraid. In the bathroom, the wooden stool I stood upon to look out the window would wobble while I waited to hear the opening and closing of the front entry door, peering out to see the figure of my father walking up the sidewalk in the direction of his workplace. I never lost balance and I wasn’t afraid of falling off the stool—I don’t remember it as being particularly dangerous. When I stood on the stool, I could make it rock from left to right by moving my feet and it would make a clattering sound as the uneven feet on each side hit the linoleum floor. I do remember though, once having seen my father on his way, a feeling of freedom washed over me—I always felt safer. Excavate that. Leave a comment Share Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe

My Father

My Father PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 25 1 My father was a tower bell that tolled the hour, a hammer against the iron rings of time, dry sand in an hourglass, empty bottle of wine. In life I could not embrace his secrets. When he died, clouds wept, birds mourned, and the great clock in the hallway stopped. 2 I saw my father's face covered with dirt his swollen lips bent to meet horizon's last gaze, kissing his way to the land of the dead Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe

What Is Not PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 23

Divide what is from what is not Tell me, then, what have you got? To that which is we give a name. But what is not will still remain. We think it’s nothing But what do we know? Perhaps from this nothing A world can grow Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935

Not Long Ago

Not Long Ago PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 23 READ IN APP Not long ago I was someone who brought you flowers. Now I am the no-one who listens to your complaints who dries your tears with the wing of a butterfly who holds your trembling hand when the wind blows, thunder crashes, and lightning snakes across the sky Now I am the forgetfulness you discover in a glass of wine, the toast raised to celebrate long winter days the appointment book full of empty pages. Leave a comment Share Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. Pledge your support SHARE LIKE COMMENT RESTACK © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe Get the appStart writing

The Old House PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 22

In the wind the old house creaks its age, rafters sway, and a storm forces wood to turn out of a fear of tornadoes. Twice-struck by lightning, twice rebuilt, dry wood crumbles and falls earthward to mix with mortar that has drifted to the base of the foundation. Local children pick at the foundation itself, carrying off pieces to build small castles or for use as missiles in their latest wars. I do not stop them for fear one may be another Frank Lloyd Wright...for fear the wrong side may win. Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe

Briefly, As I Remember

Briefly, As I Remember PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 22 The first kiss told me there might be a second and perhaps a third but by then we were already turning away apologizing before either of us had a chance to blush Leave a comment Share Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935

Burn After Reading Originally published one day before I had my first subscriber. PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 21

I fell in love early. And often. Call me foolish. In those day the orchard blazed, and you blazed with it, ripening under a watchful sun, child of the harvest, hard, round and sweet—firm, but still capable of being bruised. So white and so American, a stranger to worry or want or war. And I, so young when first we met, a blanket of green covering your rough lands, a white cloud that makes the sky seem pure by its absence. We were quiet in the marshy parts, through the waterworks, beyond fingers of land stretching out to sea and to rocks that met the sky where seabirds circle. We cried out our hallows against cathedral walls as penance and the nine billion names of God heard us. You never knew what it meant, this feeling of attachment that went deeper than friendship. There was a yearning in it, a soft cry swallowed in a distant night, a sudden turning from comfort to sweat. It was foolishness that led me to keep notes hidden away, notes containing plots, scenarios, interrogatories, and admissions whose meaning could not be explained when Father found them. Still, I was young and even with desires, unwanted, misunderstood, there was time enough for change, time enough and fear enough to learn. Burn after writing. Leave a comment Share Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. Pledge your support © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe Get the appStart writing

Scars

Scars PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 21 Wear your scars with grace and know that you are stronger for struggles you’ve faced © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe